Sickbed Confessions
by Scribble2Much
Summary: Watching Sam suffer with a debilitating migraine brings up bad memories for Dean and unresolved issues between the brothers. Sick!Sam Worried!Dean. Brotherly angst. Set in S1 after 1:12 "Faith". #2 in the Bicycle  Verse.
1. Chapter 1

**Sickbed Confessions **

**Summary:** Watching Sam suffer with a debilitating migraine brings up bad memories for Dean and unresolved issues between the brothers. Sick!Sam Worried!Dean. Brotherly angst. Set in S1 after 1:12 "Faith". #2 in the Bicycle Verse.

**A/N: **The response to my one shot, "Like Riding A Bicycle" was so amazing that I decided to write a few more stories in "The Bicycle Verse". All these fics will be set in Season One and they'll deal with long buried hurts and current conflicts as Sam and Dean struggle to reconnect following their reunion.

**A/N:**This is for everyone who read, reviewed and favourited "Like Riding A Bicycle" and for Kathryn Marie Black who got this whole thing started. Here's more Sick!Sam for all of you.

**A/N: **Anyone who's read any of my fics knows this part by heart: Thanks, as always, to the World's Best Beta, Ericka Jane. The fastest gun in the West!

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><p><strong>ONE<strong>

After more than twenty years of playing nursemaid, Dean Winchester could handle any of his brother's illnesses. That is, everything except the fever migraines that reduced Sam to a shivering, pain-riddled, zombie.

A few weeks had passed since Dean's electrocution, their subsequent encounter with the faith healer, and the nasty run-in with the reaper. It had been a near-miss of epic proportions but Dean had put the whole harrowing episode behind him, and now he felt better than ever. The only problem was that his little brother was looking like he was the one who'd had the intimate encounter with the high voltage weapon.

Dean had been flying down a back road, pushing the Impala to her limit, savouring the thrill of speed and the interplay with his favourite girl, when he'd glanced over at the passenger seat and got the first hint that there was trouble. Sam was slumped against the door, covering his eyes with his hands and pillowing his head with a jacket.

Without a word of complaint from his brother, Dean instantly recognised the signs of the onset of a migraine. Less than an hour later, they were booked into a motel room and Dean had Sam safely tucked into bed with the blinds closed, and the air conditioning on full blast. He tried not to be too alarmed when he saw his little brother practically curl into a foetal position.

"Hey," Dean whispered stooping down at the side of Sam's bed and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Please tell me you have prescription meds for that head of yours."

"Hasn't been this bad in ages," Sam barely muttered covering his eyes against the faint strains of light that stole through the blinds.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean barely managed to keep from raising his voice knowing that practically any sound would turn a notch up on his brother's agony. "You know it doesn't matter how long it takes in between, when a migraine hits you it can take you out completely. You always gotta have your stash with you."

Sam exhaled agonisingly. "I lost it in the fire," he admitted.

The rest of the rebuke died on Dean's lips.

"O.K., hold still," Dean raised himself up and sat on the bed.

"Dean, don't," Sam protested weakly.

"It'll take the edge off Sam, it always does, even if it hurts at first."

Sam sighed in compliance and Dean pressed his thumbs to his brother's temples then began kneading slowly and deeply. Dean swallowed hard when he felt Sam flinch and heard him gasp softly, but he didn't stop.

"I'm sorry, Sammy, just bear it a little longer," he whispered soothingly hoping the pressure on his brother's temples would at least distract him from the pain tearing through the rest of his head.

When Dean heard Sam exhale without any sounds of agony, he reached around to the base of his brother's head and applied the same deep, circular motion.

"Better?" Dean asked, after several minutes of treatment.

The answer was a barely audible mutter but there was no sound of protest, and that was good enough for Dean.

"Be back in a second," he said and used a small flashlight to find the restroom in the darkness. "Take these," he instructed softly when he returned to Sam's bedside. "Come on, Sammy" he prodded gently when his brother wouldn't budge. "Sit up."

Eventually he practically had to lift Sam up into a sitting position so he could feed him the meds.

"What is it?" Sam asked accepting what felt like a handful of tablets.

"Lots of Ibuprofen and some night-time antihistamines," Dean answered, tipping a glass of water to Sam's lips. "Now drink this," he said proffering another glass, this one with a heavy serving of whiskey.

"Dean," Sam gagged recognising the liquid as it burned his throat.

"If that doesn't kill the pain it will at least knock you out," Dean whispered settling Sam back down against his pillows. "Either way, you can thank me in the morning."

Morning however, brought no relief for Sam.

Although Dean's cocktail put him under for several hours he woke up feeling worse than ever. Dean grew increasingly alarmed when Sam began to shiver visibly. He killed the air conditioning and covered Sam with additional layers of blankets, but the effort brought no relief.

When a barely audible Sam started to complain about body aches and pains, Dean was on the verge of a full-fledged freak out. He had never done well when he had to see his brother in any kind of discomfort, but what had him really anxious now was the way Sam had become almost completely unresponsive under the weight of all the pain. He had only seen his brother like this on two previous occasions. Neither had been good, but the last time had been particularly catastrophic.

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><p>Every time Sam tried to lift his head, he was seared by a stab of agonising pain, and the room spun around. Eventually, he gave up. For the last two days his body had made it clear it had no intention of cooperating with any of his demands, so he cancelled all requests. It was easier to just switch off, shut down and hope and pray for the debilitating agony to end.<p>

In the midst of his pain and confusion he knew Dean was close by trying to make it better, and reassuring him that everything would be alright. Sam couldn't think of a time when he had ever been more grateful for his big brother's care. It never ceased to amaze him how his tougher than nails sibling became such a big softie when Sam was hurt or sick.

When he thought of all the things he had lost in the great Palo Alto fire, his migraine medicine had been the least of his concerns, until now. Lucky for Sam, his big brother had always been very creative about developing home remedies; and a makeshift, pain-relieving sedative had quickly emerged. The temple massage was another Dean Winchester invention. He had come up with that one, several years before, on a desperate winter night when they had been snowed in at a motel and Sam's head had been on the verge of an explosion.

As always, more than anything Dean did, his presence was what provided the most comfort. And as soon as Sam pulled out of the dense fog of pain and was able to sustain a sensible conversation, he planned to tell him. But for now, he could barely manage one word responses and so he had practically stopped talking.

Worse that the unrelenting pain that had taken over his body was the disconcerting anxiety deep in his gut. It was a feeling that was hauntingly familiar. It was a disturbing sensation that he could recall experiencing only two times before and on both occasions – like now – he had been sick to the point of resignation. And both occurrences had been episodes he wished he could forget.

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><p><strong>TO BE CONTINUED<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **This is for my creative bodyguards clair beaubien and Sparkiebunny. You both know why.

**A/N: **I cannot tell you how much I appreciate the enthusiastic response to this story. This is for all of you who have encouraged me with your reviews, PMs, alerts and favourites - thank you!

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><p><strong>T<strong>**WO**

Dean remembered it like it was yesterday; the night Bobby, his father and a fellow hunter named Joshua had left to kill a Wendigo. At fifteen Dean had been old enough to go join the hunt, but at eleven Sam wasn't, and Dean had been relegated to babysitting while the three men went on their mission. The morning after, only Bobby came back.

Bobby had explained to Dean and Sam that both Joshua and their father had suffered severe injuries. John had been rushed to surgery with deep puncture wounds, Joshua hadn't been as lucky. Bobby had taken the boys to the hospital where they stayed for two harrowing days while John Winchester's life hung in the balance.

Throughout the whole ordeal, Sam hardly said a word. Dean wasn't too preoccupied with his father's condition to detect that his usually expressive little brother had gotten eerily quiet. To add to that Dean noticed that Sam had also become more clingy than usual. He refused to sit or stand anywhere but right beside Dean and even then he was constantly leaning on his brother or holding Dean's hand as if to draw strength. But as to how Sam was actually feeling about their father's grave condition, Dean could only guess because Sam never said a word.

However, although Sam didn't verbalise any distress, Dean made a special effort to be gentle and affectionate with his brother. Sam may not have said it but Dean imagined that their current crisis was weighing heavily on his preadolescent psyche.

In the end, John had responded to the beckoning of death the same way he responded to everything else, "not until I say so and then only on my terms." He pulled through in the same stubborn, determined way he did everything else and his doctors had reassured his boys that he would make a full recovery.

As soon as the good news about the success of the surgery had been pronounced, the doctor in charge had told the boys that their father would be heavily sedated for at least forty-eight hours so they should get some rest. Bobby had sided with the physician and insisted on taking Sam and Dean back to his place for meals, showers and a good night's sleep.

It was when they were walking out of the hospital that the first signs of trouble started to show. In the parking lot, Sam who had been moving slowly stopped and leaned against Dean.

"You O.K?" Dean asked, shifting Sam around so he could hug him.

"Don't feel good," Sam had muttered against his shoulder. "My heads feels like someone's drilling it."

Dean had ushered Sam into the backseat of Bobby's car and then sat back against the door so his brother could lay his head on his chest. "You're probably just exhausted," he said soothingly. "As soon as we get home you need to get a shower and go straight to bed. Don't worry, you'll feel better in the morning."

Sam obeyed without protest but by the following morning, he could barely move. Dean was calm at first. After all, he'd seen his little brother sick dozens of times and had a shopping list of remedies to get Sam through practically anything. But when two full days of bed rest and pain medication did nothing to help Sam, Dean became increasingly concerned that something was desperately wrong. The headache had intensified and then a fever had set in with a vengeance accompanied by violent chills. And what was worse, Sam had practically withdrawn into himself becoming despondent and uncommunicative as his symptoms persisted. Colds and flus didn't scare Dean, but this new mystery illness did.

On the third night, as he lay holding his shivering little brother, Dean was convinced that the problem was more emotional than physical.

"You know you can tell me anything Sammy," he coaxed gently. "If something's bothering you, please tell me what it is."

The simple request had burst the floodgates. In tears and near incoherence, a distraught Sam had poured out his heart.

"Daddy almost died, Dean," Sam had stammered while sobbing. "Daddy almost died and then we would have been alone."

It was then, that Dean realised what had happened. Sam had gone into survival mode, holding in all his grief and fear until they had gotten past the worst. Then, he'd simply imploded and the walls that had held back all of his emotions had crumbled, taking him down with them.

Dean had held his little brother until he voiced every last worry and fear. He didn't say a word until Sam had talked himself speechless and lay huddled against him, emotionally exhausted. Then, in a soft, quiet voice devoid of all his usual bravado, Dean had reassured his baby brother that everything would be alright.

"Stuff happens, Sammy," he said, gently stroking Sam's head as his little brother clung to him. "Dad is a tough guy though, and he knows we're depending on him. He'll always do everything he can to make sure he comes home to us. But if anything does happen to Dad, I'll always be here for you and you'll always be safe."

"Always?" Sam had asked, desperate for any kind of comfort.

"Always," Dean had said. "You'll never be alone."

By the following day, Sam had been able to get out of bed. The day after that his mouth resumed the young Sammy Winchester speed of one hundred words per minute. At age eleven, big brother's comfort and reassurances had been all Sam needed to make him feel better.

The next time Sam suffered a similar collapse; neither Dean's words nor his presence had been nearly as effective.

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><p>More than a decade had past, but Sam could still remember the first time that searing pain had pierced his head and that deathly chill had racked his body, leaving him shivering, aching and too weak to even speak. When Bobby had told him and Dean that their father was in the hospital fighting for his life, a disconcerting fear had gripped Sam's heart and refused to relinquish its hold.<p>

The fear turned to terror when Sam saw his father with tubes taped to his mouth and his nose and when he heard the incessant beeping of the machines that seemed to be keeping John alive. At the sight of his superhuman father rendered mortal, Sam had reached for his big brother's hand and then couldn't bring himself to let Dean go. He needed Dean to sooth and steady him as his eleven year old mind tried to come to terms with all the implications of this terrible ordeal.

Sam had already lost his Mother, was he going to lose his father too? Could Dad, who always seemed so indestructible, actually die? Then what would happen to him and Dean? The thought of him and his brother being left orphaned and alone in the world was so overwhelming that Sam couldn't find words to express his grief. In the end, it seemed better not to even try to speak about it.

Not even the doctors' declarations that his father would make a full recovery had helped to put Sam's mind at ease. In fact, it was shortly after he received the encouraging prognosis that Sam's body had started to break down on him. Having been sent home to rest, he was walking out the hospital when he felt a sharp ache cresting through his head and it had all gone downhill from there. Within a day he had been reduced to aches and shivers and had less energy than a corpse.

He'd seen the worry in Dean's eyes as his brother had tried to make him comfortable and relieve his pain. But it wasn't until Dean had held him and begged him to say what was wrong, that Sam managed to claw his way through the suffocating fear and find his voice. He knew instantly that he could tell Dean he was scared. Dean would listen and he wouldn't think less of him for being afraid.

But when he tried to speak, his voice broke, then he started to cry and for the life of him, he just couldn't stop. So tears had come before any words were spoken but that didn't bother Dean. Sam had always known he could cry on his brother without consequence, and so he had let go and bawled with abandon. Dean had just held him and rubbed his back to sooth him and to try to keep him warm.

To the casual observer, Dean appeared to have the limited sensitivity of a typical fifteen year old boy, but when it came to his little brother's emotions and well-being, nothing was off-limits. Trusting in the sense of security, only Dean could provide, Sam had emptied his heart, and confided his fears. When the marathon of crying and talking was over, Dean hadn't promised to make the whole world right but he did promise to keep Sam safe. And in his eleven year old mind, Sam figured that was all he really needed.

He fell asleep that night clinging to Dean like his brother was a lifesaver in the middle of a turbulent ocean. In the morning when he woke, he felt better. At eleven, his big brother's comfort had been enough to lift Sam above the grip of fear and emotional trauma. But the next time Sam found himself nearly comatose with despair, things didn't go nearly as smoothly.

**TO BE CONTINUED **


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Thanks again for all the positive feedback. I hope you'll enjoy the next chapter.

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Supernatural but I have a great time acting like I do.

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><p><strong>THREE<strong>

High on the list of Dean Winchester's most painful memories was the beautiful spring day near the end of the Sam's Senior Year when Dean and a very sick Sam had engaged in a brief but caustic confrontation.

The Winchesters had been at Bobby's house for an extended visit which John hoped would provide some kind of rehab for their rapidly disintegrating family unit. The last several months had been bitter for all three of them with Sam continually expressing his desire to go to college, and John refusing to entertain the discussion. There had been more yelling, door slamming and angry, hurtful fights than Dean cared to remember. But even worse had been gradual transformation of his little brother from open and outgoing, to sullen and withdrawn.

As the fighting had escalated and Dean struggled not to take sides, he found himself lumped together with their father and labelled as hostile to Sam's progress. By the time the Winchesters had pulled into Bobby's yard, the walls between them were ten feet thick and the tension was palpable.

Within a day of their arrival, John had found a hunt and Dean had agreed to go with him but Sam had taken to his bed complaining about a persistent migraine. While Dean and John had been off, Bobby had plied Sam with heavy duty painkillers, and had been alarmed when the medication had brought little improvement. When the older Winchesters returned two days later, they were surprised to see how much Sam's condition had deteriorated.

"You mean he hasn't gotten any better," John asked anxiously when Bobby gave a full report of his failed ministrations.

"If anything he's worse," Bobby admitted. "Last time I checked on him he said it was like somebody was ramming a freight train into his head."

"Does he have a fever?" Dean asked.

"The boy's shaking like a leaf."

Dean recognised the signs and immediately; something was up with Sam.

"Let me go talk to him," he said remembering what worked the last time his little brother had exhibited these same symptoms.

"I don't think he's in the mood to talk," Bobby cautioned.

"He'll talk to me," Dean said confidently.

But the confidence evaporated when he approached his brother's bed and a lifeless Sam stared up at him with resentful eyes.

Seeing the hostility Dean tried to keep it light. "Hunt was a breeze," he said sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Good for you," Sam looked away. "Do you mind, I need to get some rest."

"Looks like you need more than that. What's up Sam? Anytime you get like this something's bothering you."

Dean had fought down the tingling sensation of panic that stirred in his stomach as Sam looked back at him and he saw the anger levelled at him in his brother's pain-filled eyes. The last time Sam had been sick like this, it had been as easy as asking. This time there would be no cuddling and crying; the animosity of the last several months had forced a lot of the affection out of their relationship. What had once come so easy to them now seemed awkward and unnatural.

The dialling down of the fondness had been particularly hard for Dean, who for all his teasing, had secretly revelled in his brother's love. Surreptitiously, he'd taken great pride in the fact that he always knew how to comfort Sam. He always knew when a well timed but good natured insult would make him feel better, or when it was necessary to dispense with masculine dignity and give him a hug. But the prickly, sulky version of his brother that had emerged during his final year of high school inspired neither gesture.

For the first time in his life Dean was at a genuine loss as to what to say or do to help his sibling. Even as he watched Sam shivering under the covers, Dean had to resist the urge to tuck the blankets around him to trap the heat in. The same way he had to resist the urge to push Sam's overgrown bangs back so he could see his face. The way things were now his brother would probably scorch him with a disdainful scowl for daring to touch him and break the new rules of engagement.

But the big brother in Dean couldn't watch Sam suffer without at least trying to intervene. "Come on Sam, tell me what's going on?"

"Even someone with your intellect should be able to figure this one out Dean. I have a migraine from hell and freaking fever; I'm sick."

Realising that the gloves were off, Dean switched his game face on. Lately it seemed he always had to wear his mask when he was dealing with Sam. He had to have the nonchalant, couldn't-care-less, Dean Winchester sneer firmly in place in order to deal with this kid whose diapers he used to change. He had to wear the look that told the lie that his brother's words didn't hurt him.

"I'm sorry to hear you're sick Sam," he said flippantly. "But that's what happens when you run out of Midol at this time of the month."

The angry blush that flashed across Sam's face gave Dean a hollow sense of satisfaction because – God help him – he would give as good as he got. But even as he enjoyed his empty victory Dean had to wonder when had it become OK for them to hurt each other like this.

"Get out," Sam had said, with surprising vehemence for someone seemingly on the verge of death. He pulled up his blankets, turned his back to Dean and his face to the wall. "I'm eighteen and I don't need a nursemaid, so just get out."

"Fine," Dean shrugged as if it was all the same to him and walked out of the room with his trademark swagger still intact. But as soon as he shut the door, he'd had to lean back against it for support. Breathing hard, he brought his hands to his face and bowed his head.

His brother had turned his back on him. Something was eating Sam up inside and when Dean had tried to help, Sam had essentially told him to go to hell. At that moment, Dean didn't think anything would ever hurt him as much.

Then less than a month later, his brother had left home and Dean's entire concept of hurt had been completely redefined.

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><p>Sam would always remember that what should have been the best day of his life had heralded in one of the worst weeks of his entire existence.<p>

It was that perfect spring day, when his father had taken him and Dean to Bobby's house, and Bobby had quietly told him that he had mail. The mail turned out to be his acceptance letter and scholarship offer from Stanford. The correspondence that informed him that, miraculously, the future he desired was now within his grasp.

The ecstasy and excitement had been short lived as Sam was forced to confront the realisation that grasping that dream would ultimately mean tearing his family apart. His father had made it almost violently clear that college was not in the future he had planned for Sam. Sam had pleaded, reasoned, bargained and begged but there had been no changing John's mind. Eventually, a feeling strangely akin to hatred had become the dominant emotion he felt at the mere sight of his father, and that coloured every interaction between them.

Now, Sam couldn't even bring himself to tell his father the good news. He couldn't bear to see the greatest triumph of his life degraded by the violent argument he knew would ensue. The initial elation evaporated fast, sending Sam crashing back to earth with a sickening sensation of anxiety stirring in his stomach and a violent pain, searing through his head. He'd shut himself away in a dark room, needing to hide even more than he needed relief from the pain.

Bobby's administration of hospital–level meds had dulled the ache in his head but didn't even begin to address the hurt in his heart. And while Dean and his father had been off on the hunt, Sam had decided to take hold of his dream and let go of his family. It would mean leaving the father who was his strength and betraying the brother who was his life; and even the thought of it left him paralysed with agony.

He'd been close to changing his mind, when Dean and his father had returned and he'd seen the worry in Dean's eyes when his brother saw how sick he was. Dean had sat on his bed convinced, as always, that he could make everything alright. And when his brother asked what was bothering him, Sam was close to breaking down. He'd never felt awkward shedding tears in front of Dean because they'd always shared an abiding trust that made Sam feel completely safe emotionally. Even at age eighteen, standing six feet four, Sam knew if he gave in now and cried like a baby there would be no repercussions. Dean wouldn't tease him, he wouldn't make any scornful references to his age or his gender, and even in the most heated argument, he wouldn't throw it back in Sam's face.

His overwhelming desire had been to just curl up against Dean the way he did when he was a little boy and beg his brother to help him. He wanted to ask for Dean's blessing, which still meant more to him than a million acceptance letters from a thousand elite schools. He needed Dean to help him to get their father to understand how badly Sam wanted this for himself and that didn't make him a selfish person or a bad son. And more than anything he wanted to plead with Dean not to withdraw from him or cut him off just because Sam wanted to have a different life. He needed his big brother to reassure him that taking hold of his dream didn't have to mean letting go of his family.

But if the last several months were anything to go by Sam knew Dean wouldn't be on his side. When it came to college, Dean, who had always been his strongest supporter, had been strangely silent. In Sam's interpretation, that silence meant that this time around, Dean was backing John. So that silence, had cut Sam deeper than any hurtful words Dean could ever have said.

As devoted as Dean was to their father Sam had always secretly harboured the belief that Dean loved him just a little bit more. But now that his covert theory was being put to the test, it seemed he had overestimated his standing in his brother's affections. And Sam resented the hell out of Dean for relegating him to second.

This should have been the happiest time of his life but because of their twisted, messed up family the chance to attend one of the best schools in the world had left him in tears and agony. It made no sense to confide any of this in Dean because the brother who should have been toasting him with a six pack and giving him tips on how to get girls at college would probably just join forces their father and help to crush Sam's dream.

With no one in his corner, Sam decided it was time to grow up and take control of his own life. On his sickbed with his heart breaking, he made up his mind not to tell Dean or his father about Stanford until it was time to leave. And although he knew that going to college would mean cutting the ties that bound him to the other half of his soul, he was now prepared to live with that consequence. So when Dean had tried to reach out him and Sam turned his back, he had turned away from his past and turned towards his future; even if that meant he could never look back.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **My apologies for the delay. I hope everyone enjoys this update.

**A/N:** This is for Mar98 who sends the most awesome PMs.

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><p><strong>FOUR<strong>

Seismic shifts, Dean thought wearily when for the third straight day he watched Sam shivering under a mountain of blankets with a pillow covering his head to blot out the light. His painful walk down memory had revealed that on the two previous occasions when his little brother had suffered from fever-producing, coma-inducing migraines, it had followed some major trauma or seismic shift in Sam's life. And the last time Dean saw his brother looking this bad, within a few weeks Sam had walked away from his family and out of Dean's life.

The way Dean read it, Sam must have been plotting his escape even as he'd lain in that bed at Bobby's sick to the point of despairing of life. Dean suddenly felt an almost unbearable fatigue as he contemplated what had triggered the latest episode. And even as he watched his brother in obvious agony, Dean had to wonder what Sam had on his mind – or up his sleeve – this time around.

Whatever it was he was determined to not be caught off guard this time. The Stanford departure had told him that he could expect just about anything from his little brother, and if history was going to repeat itself, then he decided he'd better brace for it.

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><p>Even in his dense fog of pain Sam could still detect the subtle shift in his brother's attitude. For two days straight Dean had fed him fluids and kept him medicated with creative concoctions; but by the third day, Sam could sense the strain.<p>

"What's the matter?" he asked forcing himself to sit up and open his eyes.

"You're the sick one," Dean answered tiredly.

"Yeah, but you're looking at me like I kicked your dog."

"I'm gonna make you some soup," Dean tried to side-step Sam's attempt to start a "talk".

"No. I don't think I can keep it down."

"I've been hearing that for two days now Sam. What do you wanna do, die of malnutrition?"

"No. I want you to sit still for minute and tell me what's wrong."

It wasn't the time to have this conversation, Dean decided even as he sat down on the edge of Sam's bed to face him. Right now Sam needed to just focus on getting well.

But the decision, made in Dean's head, didn't quite reach his mouth. "It's no big deal really," he said without thinking. "But if you're gonna bail on me again, I'd like a couple days notice this time around."

"Bail?" Confusion was making Sam's head spin even more.

"Yeah Sam, the last time you looked like this as soon as you recovered you hightailed it out of town."

"Do I look like I'm in any shape to go anywhere?"

"Well you didn't last time but that didn't stop you. I mean one minute I thought you were gonna drop dead and then as soon as it was clear you were gonna live you were gone."

"You remember?"

"Yes Sam, I remember. Just like I can still remember the day that Dad and Mom told me I was going to have a little brother; I sure as hell remember the day that said little brother walked out of my life and didn't even say goodbye."

"No," Sam rubbed his temples trying to ward off the pain that was increasing its grip on his head. "I didn't mean that. I mean you remembered how sick I was before I left."

"Like I could forget that, Sam? You looked like death and you wouldn't let me help you. When I tried you all but spat in my face."

Seeing Sam close his eyes and press his thumbs to sides of his head, Dean changed tactics instantly. "Let's not talk about this now, OK?" he said softening his voice. "I honestly can't kick your butt, even verbally, when you're looking like a wounded puppy."

"Dean," Sam opened his eyes and looked up at his brother. "The last time, when we were at Bobby's I'd just gotten the acceptance letter from Stanford. I knew Dad was never going to let me go willingly so I knew if I wanted college I'd have to give up my family and it broke my heart."

"Sam," Dean's tone was still gentle and patient. "You're sick. This is not the time to have this conversation."

"Dean this conversation is four years overdue; we need to stop putting it off. A lot of it's my fault. I should have spoken to you when the letter came. I should have just told you what was going on but I was afraid of how you'd react so I kept everything inside and then it was just too much and it's like my whole body just shut down on me."

"Just like the time before, when Dad was in the hospital after that Wendigo nearly killed him."

"You remember that too?"

"The time when my little brother was so frightened he was bedridden for days? I'm not likely to forget that either."

"I was scared out of my mind. And I remember you never gave me hard time for crying like a girl."

"Who cared about that Sam, you were sick."

"Yeah and you made it better. Just like you always did."

"Pity it didn't work the second time around."

"Nothing would have worked, Dean. I'd decided that I had to go."

"Well good for you. I had four years to wonder if it was something I did."

"It wasn't you. The hardest thing was leaving you. It broke me to leave Dad but it just about killed me to leave you. I think it's when I realised that going to college meant we would be separated that my body just gave out."

"That didn't stop you from going."

"And don't think it didn't cost me. You realise until I left I'd never really spent a day in my life without you."

"You made your choice Sam."

"Yes, I did and I had to live with the consequences of that choice but what I need you to understand is that I never meant to hurt you."

"Really? Sam, if a god damn werewolf had ripped my heart out and left me to bleed out on the floor it would have hurt less."

Sam sighed loudly. Only Dean could admit to such complete vulnerability and still manage to sound like a street brawler.

"I never meant to hurt you Dean. You have to know that I would never have done anything to deliberately cause you any pain."

"The way things were that last year Sammy I really don't know. You withdrew from me and Dad almost completely. We were your family Sam. And O.K., we were far from normal and in no way ideal but we loved you and cared for you with everything we had and then all of a sudden we weren't good enough anymore. All of sudden, the only thing you could say about us was that we were messed up and dysfunctional. How do you think that made Dad feel Sam? How do you think I felt?"

Sick or not, Sam summoned his energy for the fight.

"Probably the same way I felt when I realised that the one time I really wanted something that didn't coincide with Dad's grand plans you wouldn't support me. Dean, you were the one who cheered the first time I tied my damn shoelaces by myself. You celebrated with me when I learnt to ride a bike and when I got into one of the best schools in the country it had to be a secret like it was something dirty and shameful."

"You decided to keep it a secret," Dean abandoned his plans tread lightly because of Sam's infirmities. If his little brother had enough strength to yell then he was well enough to be yelled at. "You should have told me."

"And have the best thing that ever happened to me destroyed completely because the person who matters the most wouldn't have been supportive? Do you have any idea how much THAT hurt?"

When a speechless Dean could only stare at him Sam ranted on, pouring out four years worth of anger, disappointment and pain.

"All I ever wanted to do was make you proud of me Dean. I wanted you to feel that everything you did for me, all of the sacrifices that you'd made for all of those years, was worth it."

Dean still couldn't respond. This was like watching Sam ripping open his own heart, revealing all the hurt and anguish he had buried there; completely unconcerned about embarrassment or shame. After four years of emotional estrangement, the sheer force of that raw vulnerability was tearing Dean apart.

And Sam was merely hitting his stride. "While I was at college, every semester when I got my exam results I wanted to show them to you just like I did when we were growing up. Every test I aced, every paper I got an A for, none of it meant as much as it should have because I couldn't share it with you. Nothing was the same without you Dean. Everything I thought I ever wanted suddenly didn't matter because you weren't there."

Then, Sam was wincing and gripping his forehead as the pain reasserted itself and his energy left him.

Dean knew immediately that the emotional outburst had taken its toll.

"Hey," he held his brother's shoulders gently. "Calm down."

"Give me a minute," Sam leaned forward and rested his head on Dean's shoulder. "I just need a minute."

He was asking permission, Dean realised. Sam felt weak and vulnerable and needed to pull from his big brother's strength but he felt he had to ask for permission. The realisation left Dean feeling a little weak and vulnerable too.

"You need more than a minute," Dean put his arm around Sam and pulled him closer, then used his free hand to gently move his brother's head from a tentative point to a comfortable position on his shoulder. When Dean heard Sam sigh and felt his head settle in the crook of his neck, Dean stroked Sam's hair soothingly.

"We need to finish this conversation," Sam said after a momentary rest period.

"No," Dean tried for a tone that was gentle yet firm. "You need to rest."

"Dean," Sam said stubbornly, pulling back to look at his brother. "I'm not resting until we settle this."

"O.K., fine," Dean let Sam lean back against the headboard. "These 'conversations' usually go on until one of us storms out or one of us apologizes and in this case it's gonna be an apology and it's gonna come from me, so let's just fast forward to that part."

"What are you apologizing for?" Sam asked.

"For not being your big brother," Dean admitted softly. It always hurt to admit that he'd failed at his most important job but this time, the confession wrung his heart as it came out of his mouth. "I should have supported you Sam, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. As soon as you started talking about college it scared the hell out me."

"Why?"

"Because I knew Dad was never going to agree to it and I knew if you wanted it bad enough you wouldn't let that stop you. Either way, it was going to break up our family. So I didn't support you Sam because, we may have been dysfunctional, but this family was all I had."

Dean paused knowing there was more and knowing that he owed it to Sam to tell him the full truth. In spite of the malice and separation, his brother had trusted him enough to confide his deepest feelings, even when it got messy. And Dean knew he should honour that trust by doing the same.

"But it wasn't just that," Dean stopped and took a deep breath, steeling himself to tell the worst of it.

"What?" Sam pressed, sensing the hesitancy.

"I didn't want you to go to college because I was afraid that you'd outgrow me."

Sam's eyebrows shot up, wordlessly conveying his complete surprise at that revelation.

Dean knew there was no way to pull out now.

"It was bad enough that you'd somehow managed to get taller than me," he continued. "But you'd also gotten smarter, you knew I didn't have all the answers anymore and every time you looked at me, there was a little less of that awe in your eyes. When you've spent most of your life seeing absolute adoration on your little brother's face it's hard to watch it fade away. Sam, Dad may not have said what you wanted to hear but at least he was being sincere. He didn't want you going off where he couldn't protect you. Me? I just didn't want to lose my little brother."

Sam exhaled deeply, trying to dispel the awkwardness and uncomfortable feelings that churned in his stomach as he listened to his brother's admission. This time there was no hiding behind the street brawler swagger. This was just Dean trusting his little brother enough to be vulnerable.

"You know," Sam said softly. "The one thing you feared is one thing that's never going to happening."

Dean sighed. "I guess I know that now."

"I wish we'd had this conversation four years ago. We would have spared each other a lot of grief."

"That's what I'm most sorry about Sam. When we were at Bobby's, no matter how much you acted up, I never should have let that put me off. I should have pushed the issue; I should have made you tell me what was going on. And, I should have been honest about how I was feeling."

"I didn't exactly make it easy for you Dean."

"No, but that's no excuse. I'm your big brother."

Dean knew now that it was silly to have been insecure. If this conversation had convinced him of anything it was that a college degree and geographic distance didn't really matter, he was the big brother and Sam would always need him. Which was why it was up to him to take charge now.

"There's one more thing we have to talk about Sam," he said, again going for the delicate balance between being gentle and being firm. "We're all settled on what got you so sick four years ago; but what I need to know is what's really bothering you now?"

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><p><strong>TO BE CONTINUED<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **This is the final chapter in this series, I hope everyone enjoys it. Thank you all for coming along for the ride.

**A/N:**This is for Twinchester Angel who always gets what I'm trying to say.

**A/N: **Beta services provided by the awesome Ericka Jane.

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><p><strong>FIVE<strong>

Talk therapy sessions definitely weren't Dean's style. In fact, he'd only initiate one as a last resort. But, as he looked as his little brother almost limp from a migraine and still flushed with fever, he knew he had no other option. Sam was sitting up in bed resting against the headboard, his face lined with pain and exhaustion. Dean knew his brother needed to get some sleep but past experience had taught Dean that when Sam was this sick, he needed resolution more than rest.

So therapy it was.

"Tell me what's brothering you Sammy," Dean pressed. "What's wrong?"

Hearing his brother, time lost all significance for Sam and instantly he was transported back to the first time Dean had said those words. Not the last time when he'd deliberately shut himself off when Dean had reached out to him, but the very first time his body had given out on him; and as a hapless eleven-year-old he'd taken refuge in his big brother's strength.

"You could have died, Dean," Sam said, his voice trembling.

"And...?" Dean coaxed, waiting to hear more.

Sam's anger overtook his illness as his rage gave him strength.

"AND?" he spat, incredulously. "I almost lost my big brother; why the hell do I need an 'and'?"

Now it was Dean's temper that was blazing, and the gloves came off. "Oh, HELL no, Sammy!" he shouted, forgetting all consideration for the effects of noise on a migraine. "You've spent the last three days in a freaking coma for THAT?"

Dean was preparing to lay into Sam when the look on his brother's face rendered him instantly silent.

Sam was staring at him with a mixture of deep hurt and utter disbelief. In that moment Dean didn't see the hulking twenty-two-year-old who demanded to be treated as an equal. He didn't even see the defiant eighteen-year-old who had left his family and struck out on his own. Instead, he saw the little boy who would have done anything to get Dean's approval; the boy who he'd had the power to deflate or even destroy with one careless word.

Could it really be that after all this time he still held that power?

Dean didn't voice the question, but Sam gave him the answer.

"You don't get it, do you?" Sam said, fighting to keep his voice steady. "Twenty-two years and you still don't understand how much you mean to me."

"Sam," Dean raised his hands in a pacifying gesture which only served to fuel his brother's anger.

"Leave. Me. Alone," Sam turned away, seething with rage.

But Dean wasn't daunted.

They'd been here before and this was where it had broken down the last time. The last time when Sam had turned his back, Dean had foolishly walked away only to find out four years later that if had only pushed it could have spared them both a painful and bitter separation.

"Sam," Dean shook his brother's shoulder to force Sam to look at him.

Sam pushed the offending hand off, then swiftly swung his feet over the opposite side of the bed and attempted to stand up. But a stubborn migraine didn't exactly make for a good sense of balance which was absolutely essential for an enraged exit. So instead of storming out, Sam had to settle for sliding to the floor beside the bed, pulling his legs up to his chest and resting his now throbbing head on his knees.

Dean scrambled around the bed and went to his brother's side. Slowly, tentatively, he ran his hand down the back of Sam's head then gently rubbed between his shoulders.

"Sammy," now Dean's tone was soft, pleading. "I'm sorry, OK? I wasn't thinking. After I got electrocuted and those doctors told me my heart was gonna give out, you were so busy running all over the place and pushing to find a cure that I didn't even stop to think what you must have been going through. To be honest, I didn't really want to think about it."

Sam raised his head but stared straight ahead, not looking at his brother.

"When the doctors gave me your diagnosis it was like I held my breath, and couldn't let it out until I heard that you were gonna be OK. I just kept running and running because I knew if I slowed down and thought about what was happening, if I thought about actually losing you, I think I would have died even before your heart gave out."

"Sam..."

"But I couldn't stop. I couldn't stop looking for a cure because for once in our lives you actually needed _me_ to help _you_ and I couldn't let you down."

He was going to lose it, Dean realised. If he didn't calm him down soon he was going to lose it completely.

"You came through, Sammy," Dean tried to reassure his distraught sibling. "I'm alive and in one piece because my stubborn, pain-in-the-neck, little brother wouldn't give up on me."

"I thought you were gonna die," Sam closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the bed. "All I could think was that I wasted four whole years not talking to you and when I finally got you back, I was gonna lose you all over again and for good this time."

"But it didn't happen, Sam," Dean interjected. "I'm right here in front of you."

"I wasted four years, Dean. And for what? A freaking college degree? Four years when I could have picked up the phone and called you but I was just too damn stubborn to do it."

Sam's voice was trembling with anguish and Dean knew he would have to move quickly in order to stave off the breaking of the dam or in no time, he'd be mopping up an endless flood of emotions.

Sam didn't care if he looked and sounded like a hysterical two-year-old; it had been a harrowing experience and he was still reeling from it. In the midst of the chaos, he had managed to keep a cool head and pour all his energy into finding anything or anyone that could save his brother. As he had frantically explored his options, he'd constantly fought off the panic that threatened to overwhelm him at even the thought of losing Dean.

Then, when he'd finally succeeded in getting his brother healed a goddamn reaper had the freaking nerve to try to take Dean away from him again. He'd barely managed to pull Dean from the edge of death when something else was there to drag him back. But Sam had been prepared to wage the mother of all tug-of-wars even if it killed him because nothing was going to take his brother away again.

"Sam, look at me," Dean insisted, turning his brother's head so they were face to face. That's when Dean saw the grief in Sam's eyes; the complete brokenness and abject distress at having come so close to being permanently separated from his big brother.

"I'm sorry about what happened to that man," Sam confessed. "And I'm sorry Layla couldn't be healed, but they weren't getting you, Dean. The reaper and Sue Ann could take anyone else on the planet but they WEREN'T GETTING YOU."

Hearing his sibling's hysterical pitch, Dean halted all attempts to keep the tide back. For Sam, tears had always been a big part of healing; and now, more than ever, he needed an emotional release to free his soul. Dean knew the breakdown would be messy, but it was necessary.

"Let it out," he said gently pulling Sam into a hug. "Just let it all out."

With permission granted Sam clung to his brother and cried. He cried the way he had cried when he was eleven. He cried the way he should have cried over the Stanford acceptance fiasco. He cried out all the pain he had felt at the thought of losing Dean. He cried out all the fear he felt at the thought of living in a world without his big brother. He cried for all the times he had picked up the phone to call but had allowed anger, pride and bitterness to prevent him from dialling. He cried like there was no tomorrow; holding on to Dean as if letting go would mean losing his life.

Dean held Sam tight, enveloping his brother in the hope that his physical embrace could provide the necessary emotional reinforcement. This is what being a big brother was all about: caring, protecting, nurturing. It had nothing to do with SAT scores, college acceptance, or career choices. Sam could have been the world's brightest student and the country's best lawyer but only Dean knew that deep inside the man was the little boy who would always need his big brother.

Dean knew he should have seen this coming. He and Sam had gone from one calamity to the next as his little brother had tried desperately to save him, and Dean should have anticipated the toll it would have taken on Sam when it was finally over. Dean should have expected the let down and he should have been ready for it.

When the tears subsided, Sam still clung to his brother, too weak to move and too exhausted to be embarrassed about his meltdown and frantic revelations. Dean hugged back determined not to break the connection until Sam had all he needed.

He may have been four years out of practice but Dean had perfected the art of comforting Sam during a extended period of training, which started from the day Sam was born and stretched well into his teenage years. Now, Dean easily remembered the ebb and flow of his brother's emotional outbursts and with Sam, it was all about timing. Dean knew when to let him rant, when to let him weep, and when to say or do something to pull him back.

So Dean waited until he sensed the eruption was subsiding and then he paved the way for a reasonably dignified exit.

"You always were a brat," he said vigorously rubbing the top of Sam's head with his knuckles. "But then, you always were my brat."

Sam couldn't help but snicker and then he graciously took the outro. Slowly releasing his brother he leaned back against the bed and wiped his face with the front of his T-shirt.

Dean shifted so he sat parallel to Sam with their shoulders touching. Now, he was the one struggling to keep his emotions in check. Even at the height of their estrangement Dean never really doubted his brother's love for him. But now, after all the insecurity generated by their acrimonious separation, he'd been confronted with the extent of that love and the height and depths of it, the sheer force and power behind it, was throwing him off balance. If he ever felt the need to demand proof that his brother cared for him, then the fact that Sam had suffered such an epic collapse in the wake of Dean's near death experience could more than stand as surety.

"Look," Dean began after taking several moments to gain composure. "I'm gonna be straight with you. I know you care about me Sammy, but I can't stand to see you like this. I can take a lot of things, but seeing you this sick will kill me faster than any damn reaper. I know everything that happened scared the crap out of you but I'm fine now. I'm O.K. because you refused to let me die. You saved my life, Sam. And I owe you for that, big time."

Sam snickered again, this time ruefully. "I think the score is Sam, one, Dean, one thousand."

"No it isn't. Sometimes saving someone isn't just a matter of jumping in between them and danger. Sometimes it's just as simple as being there like you're here now."

"You don't have to say that just to make me feel better, Dean."

"I'm not. When I saw you getting so sick again I thought you were gonna bolt just like the last time, and that's when I realised how much it means to me to have you here. I know you have issues with hunting, I know this isn't the life you wanted for yourself. You could be back at college now or anywhere else, and it means a lot to me that you're here. So trust me, the score's not as imbalanced as you think."

"If you say so," Sam said sincerely.

And there was that little boy again. Dean wondered if he would ever be able to look at Sam and not see the child that had meant the world to him.

"I do say so. And I mean it. Now you're gonna get in bed and you're gonna rest and get better so I don't die of a heart attack for real this time, O.K?"

"O.K.," Sam closed his eyes, powerless to fight off the exhaustion.

Dean got up, then hoisted Sam to his feet and settled him down on the bed. The argument had clearly sapped Sam's strength but as he curled on his side Dean noticed that his brother's features looked peaceful. Bringing the blankets up to Sam's chin, Dean tucked them underneath him to ensure he stayed warm. Then, he reached up and ran his hand through Sam's hair using his fingers to gently rub his brother's scalp. Sam sighed contentedly as the grip of his headache seemed to loosen with the soothing, stroking motion.

"Thanks, Dean," he murmured drifting to the edge of sleep. "For everything."

"If you really want to thank me get well and stay well," Dean ordered but he couldn't keep the tenderness out of his voice.

Tiredly, Sam put his hand on his brother's extended arm. "I will."

Dean went around to the other side of the bed and lay down beside Sam. He only meant to stay there for a few minutes just to make sure that Sam was in fact out for the count. But the sound of his brother breathing evenly was as powerful as a sedative and soon Dean willingly surrendered to slumber's call.

**THE END**

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><p><strong>AN: This is the second story in "the Bicycle Verse" so if you enjoyed it you can check out the other stories in the series, "Like Riding A Bicycle", "You Watch My Back, I Watch Yours" and "What Never Will Be". **


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